From the corner of his eye, Kaine Paulsen saw it coming. He was perched on a ladder, seven meters above the desert floor, repairing the portside engine of the Miss Chance. His hands were covered in Jawa beer and hydraulic grease. The perfect remedy for a leaky fuel line.

He could have gone for his heavy blaster, but that would have ruined the game and lost the bet. The smaller, less refined flechette gun he needed was just out of reach behind his toolbox. Hidden in the shadows below the YT-1300, his first mate took the opportune shot.

The rounded flechette struck the Socorran in the back of the thigh below the haunch. Kaine jumped from the pain. "Sratt, you sorry son of—" He lost his balance as the ladder fell backwards.

Leaping for the freighter's hull, Kaine grabbed onto an electrical conduit. But the thick combination of oils on his fingers made it difficult to secure his grip. He fell five meters to the hardened black sand below and landed on his back. Sliding after him in the grease, the toolbox fell, too.

Kaine rolled to his knees to avoid the rain of hydrospanners and wrenches. The flechette gun also fell, landing squarely in the back of his head. With no astrogation system needed, he saw stars.

The Coynite's victorious snort echoed in the hot air as he moved back into the freighter's cargohold for cover.

"I will find you!" Kaine shouted. "And when I do, I'm going to beat you like a one-armed wampa." He staggered to his feet, angry, but only because his first mate had outwitted him. That was part of the game, taking strategically-timed pot shots at each other and keeping score.

"So who's winning?" Dressed in a crimson sarong, Tayri Paulsen stood at the top of the landing ramp with a grin on her face. Her curly black hair was swept back in a colorful head wrap. "Or should I even ask?"

"Rebels," Kaine replied, wiping his hands on a rag, "... by one." He massaged the swelling bruise in the back of his thigh.

Tayri leaned against the bulkhead. Her belly was full and round with their first child. A boy, she had told him. He had no reason to doubt her. She trained under a Jedi Master before the Republic turned on the Order and sanctioned their slaughter. The lightsaber at her hip rattled against the hatch. "As I recall, you started this war when you took a shot at him in the 'fresher. That's supposed to be neutral territory."

Kaine picked up the flechette gun and shoved it into the waistline at the small of his back. Walking up the ramp, he kissed her. "I'm playing the Imperials, darling. No such thing as neutral territory." He took her hand and kissed the back of it, leading her to their quarters. It was the only section of the Miss Chance that still had power. The environmental units pumped out cold air to suppress Socorro's relentless heat.

"How are the repairs coming?" Tayri curled up on the passenger lounge beside him.

"They'd be farther along if my co-pilot was helping instead of ambushing me."

She brushed the damp curls from his forehead. "You could swallow your pride and call my father. He could have a repair transport here in a few hours."

Kaine frowned. The last thing he wanted to do was show weakness to the Corellian smuggler who was his mentor. "I'm not showing Ancher I can't take care of his only daughter. I'd sooner eat my own ashes."

She winced, her green eyes narrowing with pain, and pressed a hand to her belly. "Like father, like son. Doing things the hard way." Tayri squirmed, trying to get comfortable. "I don't think he wants to be in there another month."

"I can be stubborn. I'm Socorran." Kaine hovered over her and kissed her cheek. "But if you're not happy, I'll call in the cavalry."

"Stranded in the desert with a pirate? I couldn't be happier." She gently tugged at the golden hoop in his left ear. "I've been entertaining our son by reading my father's journals about the old days running the Deadman's Triangle."

Kaine chuckled. Karl Ancher was a legend: running refined coaxium from Kessel to Tatooine to buy spice, only to trade it up for tibanna gas in the Outer Rim, and start all over again. "You better be careful, our boy will be shooting it out with Imps, flying through the ice mines of Ziyya, and making the billboards in Mos Eisley before he can walk."

"Did you give anymore thoughts to names?" She poured some cold moof milk into a cup from a decanter and handed it to him.

"Drake, after the old dragons who used to roam the Adsila Rifts." Kaine grinned proudly. "He'll be a prince among pirates."

"The Little Prince of Socorro ..."

The sudden hesitation in her voice was a cue. Kaine dropped the cup and reached for the flechette gun in the small of his back. He rolled from the lounge and came up shooting as Tra'Parr'Sratt charged through the bulkhead.

An equal match for any Wookiee, the 2.8 meter tall Coynite barely flinched as the rounded flechette struck him in the chest. The whites of his eyes showed against the fine layer of brown fur covering his face. He stared incredulously at the cup floating in the air between them.

Not one drop of the sweet, green milk had spilled on the deck.

Perplexed, Kaine glanced over his shoulder at Tayri. She laughed in mutual surprise and shook her head. "I'm not doing that." Looking down at her stomach, she rubbed her hand across her pregnant belly. "You little rogue."

Kaine grabbed the cup from the air, his fingers leaving marks in the condensation on the sides. "What else have you been reading to the baby?" He sank to his knees in awe and kissed her belly. "Well done, little Prince."